


Dimensions of Winter

by El Staplador (elstaplador)



Category: Winter Song - Sara Bareilles (Music Video)
Genre: Community: 52fandoms, F/F, Hot Air Balloon, POV First Person, Stream of Consciousness, Yuletide New Year's Resolutions Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/pseuds/El%20Staplador
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You believe in summer days, and I have faith in you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dimensions of Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scissorphishe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scissorphishe/gifts).



**Down and up.**

The leaves fell, and the snow fell, and you took my hand and my heart soared. It seemed to me that we flew together - we soared too high and we fell. You landed light as a cat, laughing, but I was caught fast in the snow and could not free myself by scraping or kicking.

After that, I stopped believing in magic, and so you got a sledge for me instead. You made me climb, trudging upwards and upwards, to the top of the snowy hills. It will be worth it, you said.

It was: one long, exhilarating, slide of racing snow, and the soft hiss of the runners, and icy air like a draught of wine. And I laughed, laughed as we plummeted, screamed as we bumped over the rough ground, held you round your waist all the way, even when I wasn't scared.

We ended up in a snowdrift again; but this one did not seem so cold. And you took me by the hand to lead me home.

That was the day we saw the balloon, rising over the eastern hills like some unnatural sun. I always loved hot air balloons, so bright and foolish and defiant, and this was a lovely thing against the winter clouds.

I wanted to watch it, to see the gas flare against the grey sky, and take it higher, higher. I wanted to stand there, at the top of our hill, as high as we could make it alone, and not so much as to blink until it was gone, beyond the horizon. But you were already walking. You always go too fast for me.

Where are they going, I asked you, when I caught you up.

Why, you said, to the palace, of course.

You pointed, but I couldn't see it.

  
**Here and now.**

This is where we live, just you and me, and a beetle and a bird, and a spider and a mouse. I see you watching out of the window, and come to join you, hoping that perhaps I might see what you are looking for.

You told me a story of a palace on a hill, and of flowers that bloom red in the springtime. I would have liked to believe you. I wanted you to take me there, and we set out together, but I hesitated, I looked back, and we were lost.

Here we are, and springtime is a dream, or worse. Nothing is alive in our house, apart from you. Not me, not the wooden bird in the clock. Our seedlings die. Everything we try to grow between us dies. This is not the time; winter is not the time, but you will never know when you're beaten, and I will always hope you're the one who's right. You believe in summer days, and I have faith in you.

All we have to do, you say, is to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and one day we'll find we've got there.

Got where?

To the palace.

I don't want a palace, I think. I want our house, but alive. I want the thing that you and I could have, if only we believed it existed.

Perhaps that is what you mean by the palace.

Walking home, we found a flower blooming in the forest, red as the heart's blood.

Spring, you said. We ran home.

Spring. Here and now.

The time has come.

  
**You and me.**

My picture hangs on the wall. Today, I am brave enough to step out of the frame and follow you. We are looking for something, but you won't tell me what it is.

You seem sad, and the buttons on your dress look like snowflakes, frosted hard; but it is my heart that is made of ice. I wish I could be happy, so that you could stop being sad.

It is a cold place, when it is just me.

But it was never just me. You were always there. I could reach out a hand in the night and touch you, if I dared. I never did, but that never stopped you being there, across three feet of chilly nothing. You breathe quiet and slow when you sleep, and I told myself that I could feel your warmth.

Every morning that winter I saw love flame in your face, but I could not believe it, though I knew it flamed in mine. My heart on my sleeve? No need: it rises in my face. In winter it was like a story I once heard; today spring comes and I remember what it means.

You took my hand and pulled me from the snowdrift and set me on my feet. You led me out and showed me wonderful things. Now you scatter my path with rose petals, and everything springs to life before us. Every plant in our little house, our house itself – my heart – sprouting, growing, budding, blooming, new dimensions, new colours. The view is better from up here.

I know, now, what you were looking for. More than that: I know that you had it all along, and you were only looking for a way to share it with me. And you were right, or I was (I forget the winter now): the only way was to wait. I tried in the winter, and so did you, and it faded and died; but this time is different.

Summer lies open before us, a whole new kingdom to explore, and you are its sovereign. Take me out again, show me, and this time I know what I am looking for.

Next year, it will snow again, and I will forget the warmth and the light, and lie as dead as the autumn leaves. Oh, but next year we will know better, and you will hold me in your arms, and we will lie warm in bed together, and the snow will fall as gentle as a butterfly, and make a soft blanket over our house.


End file.
